iLeft
by MindBottled
Summary: The past can never come back to haunt us; it is far too busy cavorting with the present.


**Disclaimer:** I do not own anything from iCarly. Those rights belong to Dan Schneider and Nickelodeon.

 **Author's Note:** This actually started off as a side project, but it spiraled out a bit. I'm not a hundred percent pleased, but… here it is, nonetheless. As always, enjoy!

 **Pairings:** Carly/Nevel, mentionings of Sam/Freddie, and if you squint sideways and think really hard on it, perhaps hints of unrequited Freddie/Carly

* * *

It's been three weeks since she's returned from Italy.

Three weeks, fifteen ignored texts, and one empty apartment across the hall. She would cry, if the irony of her current circumstances wasn't so poetic; she returned, only to be abandoned.

It's… well, it's fitting really.

Any time she manages to catch Spencer off guard, he finds some new and improved way to avoid her, mumbling excuses about art projects, though he never manages to look her quite in the eye. They both know he's lying but neither of them are willing to call his bluff.

Part of her doesn't want to, despite the curiosity that plagues her waking hours.

Still, she can't take another moment trapped in this stuffy apartment, her only company the ghosts adorning her walls. Grabbing her jacket, she writes a hurried note, one she's almost certain Spencer will never read as the apartment door slams behind her.

Even Lewbert pays her little heed as she walks out of the lobby, his usual cynicism muffled under mountains of paperwork.

It's cloudy here in Seattle, a stark contrast to the warm, balmy days in Tuscany; here, the wind always seems to carry the delicate, earthy aroma of rain, the breeze tickling her nose and sweeping up her hair. A small sigh escapes her lips as another rush of wind greets her, its frigid embrace as good as any other.

For the first time since she's returned, she finally feels as though she belongs, as if she's not just another outsider looking in.

She continues to wander around aimlessly, taking in the familiar sights of the city. Not much has changed since she's been gone; though the brick and mortar may have aged, it retains the same worn, broken in look that she remembers all too well.

It's almost like nothing has changed in her absence; if she closes her eyes and breathes, everything is exactly the same.

But as she makes her way uptown, she notices there's a new upscale cafe that smells exactly like espresso and the soft, fluffy pastries from Italy that taste delicious, even if she's still uncertain of her pronunciation of them. Despite the enticing aromas, she's certain it costs more than she can afford, the meager handful of coins in her pocket jingling in agreement.

Still, it wouldn't hurt to take a peek… right?

The interior is cloaked in shades of amber and mahogany, the dim lights curtained underneath a fog of steam, tables and chairs squashed in together. It's cozy yet intimate, the quintessential image of a writer's dream, a far cry from the Groovy Smoothie.

The change of pace is almost welcome as she looks up at the stained chalkboards, a dozen different concoctions listed across them, her head spinning with sweet, tempting visions of caramel lattes.

"Why, if it isn't Carly Shay…"

She freezes at the sound of his voice, her heels grinding to a halt; of all the ghosts that could come back to haunt her, why did it have to be him?

"Hello Nevel." The words taste bitter as they slide past her tongue, and she tries not to grimace as she turns to face him.

In the years that she's been gone, he's grown taller, though she doubts he'll ever truly grow into the size of his ego. Height differences aside, he looks almost exactly the same as she remembers him, down to the last wool fiber of his powder blue cardigan.

"Oh come now, don't be so coy. Won't you have a seat?" He gestures toward an empty chair at his table, his lips spreading into a wide grin when he catches her eye.

She glances around, the patrons eying her curiously, lips poised to spread rumors and mischief; the idle talk of strangers shouldn't intimidate her, but it does. She grits her teeth as she slides into a seat, pulling her lips up into a charming smile as if she's meeting a dear acquaintance.

As if venom and malice can ever be dear.

"What do you want?" She says, flipping a long lock of hair out of her face, the strands dancing in the breeze, as casual and dismissive as she hopes to be.

"What, can't an old friend say hello?" His voice is so smug, she swears he's purring; she narrows her eyes at him but says nothing further on the matter.

He's acting every bit like the cat that ate the canary, and the thought of her being a bird on a serving platter is unnerving. He's playing at something, but as to what, she isn't certain.

She doesn't like it though.

"Speaking of friends, where are yours?"

The question sends her reeling, striking her more sharply than any blow could ever hope to.

"They're… Well, they're…"

She fidgets, biting her bottom lip as she looks around, willing a lie to come to her lips; his eyes light up when they catch hers, and her stomach plummets.

"Busy?" He supplements, the corners of his mouth twisting up, a sharp, wicked crescent etched out across his lips. He wants to drag the dagger further into her skin, to see the pain as it floods into her eyes, to revel in the knowledge that _he_ caused it.

He wants her to feel the same agony he has felt every day since she spurned him, the same pain that has hounded him for years, all caused by some silly girl and the folly of his own heart. Her weakness is painted on her sleeve, and he knows just where to strike.

In essence, it's a low blow and he knows it.

She blinks, her lashes fluttering shut against her skin, her eyes shielded from his barbs; if she doesn't witness it, it can't harm her. It's a childish mechanism to be sure, one best fostered against creatures that dwell in the shadows your closet, venomous shades that threaten to strike in the dead of night.

But she pauses for a touch too long and it is all the validation he needs; he now knows that he's underneath her skin, a needle she won't be able to pry away so easily.

"Too busy for even you? My, isn't that a shame…" He takes a sip of his inky espresso, reveling in his eminent victory, willing to do anything if only to savor it for a moment longer.

Revenge does not carry bittersweet tang that they warn you about as a child; it is a delicious fruit, one that must be cultivated for years before it can be plucked, an experience well-worth the effort it takes.

"They have time for each other, just not _you_."

He produces his phone with a flourish, the chrome inlay glinting in the scant rays of light like an ominous promise that has been biding its time, waiting for the day it can come to surface, when dues must be paid.

With a simple flick of his finger, the screen roars to life; with two more, a video is produced, images of a rankled, snarky blonde and a frightened, disheveled boy filling the screen, motorcycles and tuna filling the hazy distance in between.

"It's what you deserve, really."

She says nothing, her hand pressed tightly against her lips as watches them, all the color draining from her skin.

She did not dare to hope that they would still be here, waiting as patiently as the tides do the moon; she is wise enough to realize that time still marches on, even if she does not. But to see them _together_ …

A sob escapes her lips as she grasps onto a snowy linen napkin for support, her fingers shaking as the delicate fabric crumples, the cloth as marred as she is.

Her heart weighs heavy in her chest as the memories wash over her, until she's left gasping for air, tears rolling down her cheeks; for every smile, for every laugh, another stone is added, until her chest feels as though it will burst from the pressure alone.

Her cries seem to echo on, drowning out her thoughts, long after her tears have dissipated; he watches her mutely, his triumphant grin vanishing before it can even form.

"You're right." She finally says, her voice trembling and small, as though she's afraid saying the words aloud will make them true; a part of her fears they already are.

"It is all my fault."

He says nothing in return, the words dying to ash before they can reach his tongue, his throat a parched expanse as the seconds seem to slowly trickle by him.

He had been expecting her to make brash claims of bravado, to snap back at him with defiance blazing in her eyes, teeth bared and ready to make the killing strike; to see her act so meekly is jarring, and he's not quite sure what to do with himself.

"Yes, well…" He clears his throat awkwardly, tentatively pulling at the collar of his shirt and smoothing the folds in his sweater, waiting for the right words to form; nothing ever does.

Another silence lapses over them, though this time, he's the one left unnerved.

"Does that make you happy?" She asks suddenly, her words quiet and pensive, carrying with them an arctic blast, though no scorn lurks under the surface; it is a simple question, one that demands the truth in turn.

He arches a brow skeptically at her, wondering if this is some sort of trick; it wouldn't be the first time she's pulled the wool over his eyes. She lets out a soft hiccup, fingers quickly brushing over the sides of her eyes, rendering all traces of doubt obsolete.

Perhaps then, it's time he was honest with himself.

He draws in his bottom lip, kneading over the soft tissue until the skin grows coarse and raw, his eyes trained on some unseen location, some distant memory. Is this how happiness feels? This sickening lurch in the pit of his stomach, the pain intensifying each time he catches a glimpse of her?

No, only a fool could ever equate such feelings to bliss. He has sinned and now he is reaping what he has sown; perhaps there is some logic then, in describing vengeance as a bitter end.

"I thought it would." He finally admits, running a hand over his eyes, fatigue lining the edges of his frame.

All these years he's spent chasing vengeance, and to what end? All he has to show for it is a crying girl and an ill conscience.

"I thought they _might_ wait." She whispers softly, hastily wiping at her cheeks as another tear falls free from her lashes, though whether the words were to his benefit or her own, she's uncertain.

He shifts in his seat, eying her uneasily as she continues, steamrolling over anything he might try and say. Hasn't he said enough at this point? What more could he possibly say to hurt her any worse than he already has?

"That sounds silly, doesn't it? Why would they? I should know better than that, I _do_ know better than that." A dry laugh cracks through her lips, manic and uncertain, rapidly dissolving into another bout of hiccups.

She's rambling, trying to make sense of a reality she no longer understands, her thoughts drifting further into disarray. She should be happy really, that they're together and that despite the odds, they managed to obtain some sense of a happily ever after, even if they had to nearly die to achieve it. She's a good friend, it's what she should want.

But she doesn't.

She wants them to come crawling back to her, to fill the void and empty spaces in her life, to make her feel less hollow. She wants to wake up smiling again, a laugh never far from her lips, her arms drowning in their weight. But what she wants most of all is to have friends again, to belong again.

But no matter what she wishes, it will never change fact.

They're gone, and all the while, she held the door open for them, her eyes lost beneath the Tuscan sky. She knew the consequences of her actions, but she chose to take them anyway; her current predicament is a testament to her own selfish nature.

She has always been such a stupid, foolish girl…

"It doesn't."

She starts, blinking owlishly up into his blue eyes, his words slowly piercing through the fugue that has built up around her. His words are simple, but promise to offer a small amount of solace; it's easy for her to discern the truth behind them.

She would expect him, of all people, to know that a lie borne out of kindness is still a lie.

She shakes head brusquely, her lips trembling and her cheeks splotchy, the words catching in her throat. She doesn't need anyone offering her false sincerity; she's the one who has made a mess of things, she deserves to suffer for her actions.

With an audible sigh, he reaches across the table and wraps her wrist firmly in his hand, refusing to relinquish her, despite her spluttering protests to the contrary.

"It _doesn't_." He says, his voice taking on a steely edge, despite his best attempts to soften it; he's trying to be patient, but she has the annoying habit of making things impossibly difficult for him.

The daggers she shoots at him only further serve to prove his point.

"Why do you care?" She suddenly snaps, and this time he's ready for her; though her anger may be misplaced, he holds no doubt that he deserves every bit of it.

He may have enlightened her to the truth, but he did it in the cruelest fashion possible; the betrayal she feels is in part his own doing, a matter that will continue to haunt him for many days to come.

"Why wouldn't I?" He stares intently at her, something shifting beneath his sharp gaze.

He knows he is not a kind man, he is not even a good man if truth be told; he revels in misfortune, his atonements always whispered through forked tongues and concealed lies. But if there was ever one truth he has held on to, it is this: his devotion to her.

Whether it is through happiness or despair, she has become a constant vortex in his life; every action he has ever taken, every action he will ever take, will always lead him back to her.

"You said you…" She begins, only to be interrupted; he refuses to allow her to feign ignorance any longer.

"I've said many things, Carly. You're a smart girl; can't you decipher fact from fiction?"

She hesitates, the gravity of his words not lost on her. This isn't a game between children anymore, counting and pulling at straws, patiently waiting with bated breath for the other to crumple.

Perhaps it never was.

"You can't, you _can't_." The words almost startle her as they slip past her lips, the denial coming too easily to her tongue; she too, knows a lie when she sees one.

After everything that has transpired between them, it seems almost absurd to believe that he still yearns for her, that he still wishes there could be something more than hostility between the two of them. And yet, she knows better than anyone else, that his sheer persistence could move mountains alone.

Oddly, the thought doesn't frighten her as much as she thinks it should.

"I can." He says, as he pulls his hand away from her wrist; the absence almost makes chills run down her spine, the sensation too jarring for her to discern the reason as to why.

"And do."

She starts at his words, dark eyes flashing up to his own, curiosity compelling her forward.

"Why?"

"Why not?" His lips almost tease up into a smile as he toys with her words, throwing them back at her; old habits die hard, after all.

She lets out an irritated sigh, but refuses to relent; his tactics never have been enough to sway her.

"Because…" She begins, only to be interrupted by him once again.

"Because you left? Because of how cruel we've always been to each other? Believe me, I know there are million reasons why I shouldn't feel this way, I must have told them to myself a thousand times already."

She blanches for a moment, taken aback by his bluntness; though she's no crestfallen damsel at his rejection, she hadn't quite expected him to be so… callous. Of course, there's no reason for him to care for her or spare her feelings; it makes no logical sense.

Yet somehow, the pain of rejection is still there; perhaps her wounds are still too fresh to deal with anymore collateral damage, even if it is to be expected.

"And yet, there is only one reason I can think of to the contrary."

She swallows, his next words echoing through her thoughts before they even leave his tongue.

"Because I do."

"What if I don't?" She asks, tilting her head to the side as she examines his face, searching for any signs of a reaction.

Their history is long and storied, its pages spilling forth with the slightest of touches, and by now, she knows what to expect of him. Once her words have sunk in, he will become belligerent, a curse on his lips and malice in his heart, before parting ways with her.

To think any differently would be foolish.

A mirthless chuckle escapes his lips as he pinches his eyes shut, looking far too old for his age. He didn't dare to dream any longer; his dreams have always been dashed away long before they can form and he's grown so tired of being bitter.

"You haven't for years, I doubt that will change any time soon."

His response astonishes her, but she does her best to temper her reaction; the most he will see is the slight incline of her head, her eyes tracing constellations out onto the linen, so as not to betray her.

Time is a funny creature, she thinks; enemies can be reformed, while friends disappear amongst the rippling tides, their bonds too brittle to stay aloft for long.

"It might." Her voice is barest of whispers when she speaks, so quiet he thinks he must have misheard her, his heart stuttering beneath his ribs.

"It might?"

The ghost of a smile graces her lips as she looks up at him, some warmth needling its way back into his skin; in the scant rays of light, her eyes shine like stars, their brightness burning away years of pain.

"It might."


End file.
